She says it in that speakeasy side-of-the-mouth way. Don’t want to be rude, but I don’t want to lead her on either. “It’s going great,” I say, then nod goodbye and return to the ballroom with my whiskey.
Normally, I’d circulate, but I’ve already found the woman I want, so I’m content to watch. She’s heads-down through a few more songs. Tevin swings by, and we chat as I drink, but I steal glances at the musician all the while.
She never lifts her gaze. Never searches the room—it’s like she’s trying to hide in plain sight.
My gut swirls. When Tevin leaves to chat with others, I’ve got a sinking feeling. She doesn’t want to see me. What I don’t know is why.
I’m not going to cause a scene at The Scene, but I need to know if I’m wrong.
If I’m reading something into nothing.
I check the clock. If her break is the same time as two weeks ago, it’s coming up soon. When the clock strikes nine-fifty-five, I make my way to the library, but I don’t go inside.
I lean against the doorframe, gaze from behind my mask down the hallway. I’m casual on the outside, coiled tight on the inside. When the music stops at ten, my pulse quickens. A minute later, the tap of feminine shoes sounds on the marble floor.
She’s heading down the hall at a rapid pace, her gaze locked on the door at the end.
The restroom.
I feel like a stalker.
Hell, I am a stalker.
Especially since she turns her masked face to the left, avoiding the library side completely. She doesn’t want to see me, and that pisses me off. Just say it to my face.
I had enough games in my marriage. I won’t play them anymore.
I study her like I can find the answer on her. My gaze travels up and down her curves, from the mask covering her eyes to the fringe on her dress swishing against her knees to the stars dangling from her silver anklet.
Wait.
Déjà vu slams me harshly into yesterday evening at Tate’s office, but the details aren’t clear. I scrub a hand across my jaw, trying to activate the memory fully.
But now that she’s seconds away, I’m torn. Figure out what’s been nagging at me or find out why my mystery woman is ditching me.
I’m tempted to grab her hand, toss her over my shoulder, carry her into the library, and ask what the fuck? But I’m not going to push a woman around.
I step out of the doorway. “You’re avoiding me,” I say, using words, only words.
But she flinches, then stumbles. I dart out a hand, catching her wrist before she falls.
Her breath catches. “Oh.” It comes out shuddery.
“Aren’t you?” I ask.
Her gaze drifts down to my hand on hers, but she doesn’t try to shake it off. “I don’t know what you mean,” she says, her voice not quite her own. It’s as if she’s trying to hide it, pitching it down.
But fuck games. “You haven’t looked my way the whole night,” I say.
“I’ve been working.” Her tone is neutral, but a little shaky under the surface like she’s fighting to stay that unaffected.
I’m scaring her. She got cold feet, and I’m fucking scaring her.
The dating world is shitty enough for women. I don’t need to be a demanding, aggressive prick. Resigned to being stood up, I let go of her and raise my hands in surrender. “I’m sorry. Forgive me. Have a good night,” I say, then I step around her, but my eyes land again on her anklet.
That’s…
The woman racing into the bathroom yesterday at Tate’s office.
“Your ankle bracelet,” I say heavily, dread swirling in my gut.
Her eyes widen behind her mask. She gulps. Oh hell.
Yesterday, Tate said he had to meet his daughter for dinner. I swear I saw her rushing down the hall, catching only a fading glimpse of her legs.
That woman was wearing this anklet.
I grab her hand again, and this time I do jerk her into the library, shutting the door and locking it behind us. I rip off my mask. “Are you…?”
With a pained expression, she slowly removes hers—revealing my best friend’s beautiful daughter.
She’s even more stunning with her mask off.
8
LIKE A GOOD GIRL
Finn
I slam my fist against the wall. “Fuck,” I grunt, then shake out my hand. My knuckles burn. I can’t believe my bad luck. “I’ve done nothing but think about you for the last two weeks,” I grit out.
“Join the club,” she says dryly, handling this much better than I am.
But it’s not funny to me. I stare harshly at the beauty in front of me. “Do you have any idea how much you’ve been on my mind?” I ask, but I’m not angry at her. I’m pissed at fate.
“No. How much?” It’s a challenge and a genuine question.
I stare at the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen. I’ve met Jules a couple of times. I didn’t give her a second thought because I was married then. But yes, in an intellectual way, I registered that she’s pretty, that she’s witty, and that her glittering brown eyes held a hint of…something in them.
Something I couldn’t name then, but I can now. Curiosity.
“Nonstop. You’ve been in my head for two weeks. Fifteen minutes in the library, and now you’re lodged here,” I bite out, tapping my temple.
Her lips twitch in a hint of a grin. “Well, you spent two songs with me on the piano too. Don’t forget that.”
I groan, annoyed and turned on all at once.
This is what I’m talking about. She’s a delicious flirt as well as the most responsive woman I’ve touched. It’s impossible not to want her. “That’s the problem. I want more,” I say, but inside, I’m torn apart by loyalty and lust. They’re both terribly powerful.
She lifts her chin. Strong. Defiant. “I wanted that too,” she says, fearless but seeming resigned to our new reality.
Still, her boldness is kerosene to my desire. I should not be so close to her. I should not stand this near to her.
I spin around and pace across the ornate carpet in the library, dragging my hands through my hair like I can rewind this awful twist of fate. “You’re the first woman I’ve touched since my divorce. And you’re—” I stop, choking on the words.
When I turn back, Jules is looking down at the floor like she’s done something wrong. That won’t do. I stalk back over to her, aching to hold her, fighting to resist her. “It’s not you. I just can’t believe this,” I say softly, metering my frustration. I can’t let her think she’s the reason I’m mad.
She raises her face again. Her eyes are tinged with regret and disappointment. Everything I couldn’t see earlier when she played, I see plainly now.
She was never avoiding me.
Carefully, I ask, “Tonight. When you wouldn’t look at me…were you protecting me?”
A sad nod. “I didn’t want you to know. I thought it would be safer if you never knew who I was.”
“Safer for me?”
“Yes. I didn’t want you to carry that with you.”
“Carry what?”